


steel and silk

by Dissonencia



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, japanese myth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:01:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissonencia/pseuds/Dissonencia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ichigo is a dying demon. rukia is his mate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dead in the water

_There's dead in the water,_  the villagers say.

Rukia has heard it all. Mother to daughter, father to son, grandparents to grandchildren, it is a mantra, repeated generations after generations over hushed and cautionary tones - a weighty warning;

They speak of the river as if the water flows directly to hell itself.

Foul words escape their mouths -swearing that the river is a plague, cursing its existence, yet they remain apathetic, they don't say anything, they don't do anything, they don't protest anything whenever the time for ritual comes. They don't watch. They don't come at all.

But tonight, Rukia sees the villagers dotted the place surrounding the riverbanks many meters away. Most of them hold small candles -lighting up the usually dark forest like scattered fireflies. Amidst the praying priests around her, she hears the murmurs of the villagers praying for her, for her soul. Their expressions and tones, grim and pitying, but their eyes hold a more interesting message,  _thank you for dying_.

The rite priests, however, speak of it like a servant to a master, dutiful and respectful. Yet Rukia knows, behind their prayers and praises, their clean ceremonial clothes and astute attention to incense and offerings, are men slave to occult customs that predates their village out of disabling, unbearable, unimaginable,  _fear_.

They call the river Karinui.

The river runs parallel to their village, separated only by a thick forest in between. Their small village resides near the foot of a mountainous range, strangely, despite its location, it is inaccessible to any outsiders; they never had a visitor bearing a name beyond the registry of families. More strangely, they never needed anything beyond the lines of trees and never set foot in its confusing trail.

Rukia stands alone, barefoot in the riverbanks. Her waist-length black hair pulled up by a red ribbon, a stubborn bang hung between her violet eyes. Her petite form clothed in the best red furisode her stepmother could find -borrowed from the village chief's daughter -Orihime, who, everyone thought as the next offering to please the demon.

"Look at me," Rukia hears one of the priests snaps an order. She turns to him reluctantly.

They wear wooden-carved masks with very thin slits in place of eyes -to protect them from having even the slightest of glimpse of the fires of hell, and because they are unwilling –first and foremost- to gouge out their eyes –to become blind for the entities they claim to loyally serve.

The masked priest carefully picks up a red cloth between his hands and shows it to her.

"You are not to see anything until you hear the bells, it marks your passage to the other world." His raspy voice grates Rukia's nerves. Her head raises an inch to look to the entirety of his wooden mask then to the small slit where the voice came is coldness there, and a tone of finality that seem to suddenly and easily rattle her reserve -like a disturbing touch on an otherwise peaceful pond.

Reserve. What a lie.

Because Rukia comprehends their words, but what she hears are meaningless words, far from her understanding. Because she, in the last seven days, was like an alive doll, a spiritless body capable of moving and walking. The idea of being chosen was never in her mind. She watched the previous ladies stood in this riverbank much like an audience to a depressing kagura -emphatic but never the participant.

"Do you understand?"

Rukia nods.  _No_.

"Come closer," the priests orders again.

Rukia steps forward hesitantly, the wet grass in her bare feet suddenly feels comfortable, the looming trees do not look threatening anymore, and she suddenly wants to run back to her sleeping cot in their tiny home; feel the needle pines in her back, follow a small group of rabbits during her free time, and just be a simple human.

The fraction of a second before the oldest of the priests could tie the red cloth around her eyes, she catches sight of her stepmother crying and her expressionless stepfather. She sees a tearful Orihime standing behind her father, the village chief. The chief himself stares ahead, not at her, but at the river apprehensively -like everyone else.

Rukia stifles a choke when the cloth completely shrouds her vision, rendering everything as nothing. Out of fear, the defeat of the body -she doesn't know.

It may be because, from this point on, she would have to travel on her own, towards a place she never really understood, to a place she grew up hearing but never minded.

 _Dead in the water_.

"Follow my voice," the priest says, "step down." He adds firmly.

Rukia carefully steps down, down to the wobbly boat that would take her away.

This is the last part of the ritual, the woman stands alone at the riverbanks, clothed in red and blindfolded before stepping into the boat unescorted after the purification ceremony. Because they believe the demon watches from the other world, her red clothes distinguishes her from the darkness, and her willingness to walk alone towards the river is a sign or her submissiveness -this pleases the demon.

Before, she, a hapless weed from the lesser part of the village, would never be a part from this, for they only select the most beautiful of their young female villagers from the designated harvest sacrifice selection for the demon.

For the past three years, they were unusual demands from the demon that terrorizes their village. The blind shamanness that communicates with it asks more and more of offerings, more urgent than the previous, grander and better, with worrying frequency.

Three nights ago, when a black katana -believed to be a tsukumogami, a once, inanimate object that gained a semblance of consciousness- first appeared beside her. The priests assumed the demon wanted her. So they sent her.

Rukia sits near the far end of the boat, two lighted paper lanterns placed on both ends of the boat, beside three lighted incense and three pieces of tiger lilies, she has nothing more to take with her.

One of the priests -she thinks- looses the tie and her boat starts its journey along the river.

The river seems to be singing -strangely so. It sways gently. She feels it in the air, there is gentle thrumming beneath her, like the river is gently lulling her, and there is no wave, just smooth stream sail ahead.

This is the river of death, or for some -of life.

To her, it is more  _of death_.

 _Of death_ -her friend Renji disappeared here.  _Of death_ -to her real family. And now -her. Ironically,  _of life_ , her family drowned but she didn't.

She hears a familiar yet distant sound of bells.

Remembering what the priest said about the bells and the ribbon, she slowly unties the cloth at the back of her head, the ribbon falls inaudibly in her lap where it blends well with her clothes.

The bells are placed at the furthest humans can reach, signifying the end of the river from the human side, it was placed there by their village forefathers -those who performed the ritual first.

Here, there is stillness and a form of silence similar to a song abruptly suspended after hitting the highest note, violently expectant.

The river continues to expand in size, almost resembling a greater body of water, they call it the realm between, or the passage to the other.

The priest said once she sees the place where heaven kissed the earth, she's near -she's in between.

Rukia opens her eyes and she sees no more of the narrow riverbanks, but a wider water reach, horizon to horizon.

She thinks, this is where heaven and water meet, divided by a thin line people call the horizon. The water reflects the nebulous stars above like a mirror making the horizon impossible to discern. This is the stars, suspended colorful small jewels and spiraling, expanding smoke that light the sky whenever night time comes.

Tonight, the stars are reachable, almost tangible, almost intimate shining beside her.

Rukia sits silently, looking at them. The tugging in her heart disappears, a warmth in her stomach settles.

This is her soul's last soar. The path ahead is anguished.

She's almost drowsy, lulled by the stars when she sees the first candle twinkling a few meters ahead of her.

Immediately, the creeping dread pushes back, jolting her back to her senses harshly. Her eyes focus on the single lit candle then slowly moves to ten more, twenty more, fifty more and hundred more ahead.

The priests warned her that when the stars are slowly being replaced by lighted candles floating in the water and wispy smoke starts appearing, she's entering her destination -the Meido.

Looking back, Rukia sees the stars are no more, there is nothing, there is no horizon, where water meets heaven is indecipherable.

Rukia feels the cold settles in, her layered kimono is useless, the cold penetrates it easily and makes her paralyzed.

The boat rocks weakly, like hands are pushing it, directing her forward -yet the mirror-like stillness of the water remains unbroken.

She passes the first lit candle. Rukia realizes they are hovering an inch above the water and that small inscriptions are written in its short body -a name. Indiscernible names clumsily scribed.

She passes more, and more, there are thousands more. The candles move, making way for her.

She has come to realize that they ones near her are all the same in height -short, yet some are thin, large or curved. All of them are burning furiously.

She tries to read the name in each candles -to make sense, though she can only guess; these must be names of dying people. But after seeing a candle with 'Orihime' written in it, she knows it's not the case -almost, with complete certainty; Orihime isn't dying.

The candles are soon joined by smoke appearing as a certain form. A small cloud of smoke would rise from the water, form a torso, hands then dissolves just as quickly. Some would form from the extinguished candles afar. They weave in and out of form, but when their forms appear human, their transparent eyes would look at her, their bodiless form would turn to her boat's direction but not move -until the wind dissolves their forms.

The priests say they are spirits. Rukia closes her eyes, but she isn't scared.

' _Treat it like a dream until you meet him_.'

 _Him_ -she doesn't know. The priests are always tight-lipped about the demons and Hell, is he a monster? She doesn't know. She clutches the sides of the boat. She does know, however, that demons are monstrous in forms, horned with engorged heads, with Red or Blue skins, carrying iron clubs or large blades.

The rocking in her boat continues, getting harsher and harsher by degrees -like there are things bumping beneath her boat. Then the bumping abruptly stops. This forces her to open her eyes once more, and when she does, she sees the riverbanks returned.

Contrary to the human world's wilderness and green lush, everything here is cast by shadows, by the shadows, from the shadows. The trees resemble the shadows from the sinister characters and settings of their village's occasional shadow plays, devoid of color. Her boat continues to move at a glacial pace between riverbanks.

And she does not notice the many heads all peering from her behind the shadowed trees.

Rukia peers down the river water again, expecting to see the something. And its depth is still dark, so dark -she thinks it's endless, like the spaces between the twinkling stars every night, like the darkness that engulfs her whenever her stepmother extinguishes their candles. Curiously, the water's surface -even with all the bumping -remains intact.

" _Rukia_!"

Rukia feels a surge of familiarity, a leap in her heart, a voice she hasn't heard for a long time. Her head turns to the direction of the familiar voice just as when a feeling, a presence so eerie, a feeling so heavy it paralyzes her, forcing her on her place, unable to move an inch.

There is dread, it is everywhere.

She sees him for the first time, or his silhouette. She thinks he's the demon.

His shadowy figure tells her he is of human form, reclining opposite her direction. The silhouette of a katana resting on his right shoulder is dreadfully familiar.

She could not see his face.

The figure stands up, Rukia's vision becomes blank.


	2. where the sun dies

For his enemies, Ichigo burns, with danger and rage, like the sun, fierce and blinding. The heat burns the flesh from the bones with the force of thousand degrees, to those who witness him, it leaves a lasting after image. His presence is too consuming, too looming –impossible to miss the poised threat that seemed to weave itself in the very stance he carries himself with, in the currents around him, in the swift whip of his scarf in the air.

For his allies, Ichigo burns, like the sun on a fresh morning, the first sun rays of a new day. The light that slowly rises from the horizon, and gives everyone a renewed vigor, a soft, warm glow -a hope.

Today marks the third year of his clash against the entirety of Hell.

In the land where the sundown is permanently etched in the sky and its red-tinge stretches horizon to horizon, he walks. Brisk walk focused on a straight beaten path, not stopping to acknowledge those emaciated souls forced to bow down along his path by their Oni escorts –for he is a respected  _yet_  unpopular warlord.

The Oni themselves –red, blue, green, those who are escorts to the souls- eye him carefully,  _they know_ , the news about him already reached far places like Meido, they are wary of him, mainly now, his sudden appearance to the realm beneath Hell. The demon warlord with the fire-like hair has come for a soul, who, bypassed all the common rituals of going to the Underworld along with its trials, arranged, of course, by the demon warlord himself.

The deed itself is punishable. And that them, the Oni, couldn't stop him, even if the warlord has no authority in the Underworld.

The air burns as well, nauseating from strong scent of burning bones and flesh beneath, but sweet from red campanula and tiger lilies. This place is evocative of the Human realm, the mountains, the farms stretching beyond, the forest, the worn-out huts near the trees. The first Judge ordered this, the human-likeness, in consideration of the souls passing, to ease their transition, but maintained the sundown, to remind them of their deaths, the end of their human lives -their sundown.

He rarely visits this ground, rarely stares into the eternal sundown, rarely hears the fresh cries of souls, for it rejects him as he rejects it, this is the receiver of souls new to afterlife; he is already more than a thousand year resident of Hell. Its fires already flow in his veins steadily, much like his own blood.

Ichigo walks fast, swift and unconcerned to his surroundings. His destination is the edge of the river. The end point for passing souls.

This is where the sun dies, the underworld they call Meido.

This is where souls rest after their seven-day journey, where souls desperately seek escape, or hope to be reborn in one of the five realms, or wail dreadfully; this is where the souls pass for the first judgment.

And every one of them crosses the river.

There are several ways to reach the end of the river, based on the souls' deeds during their lifetimes. The most uncommon of which,  _by the boat_ , because no one is privileged enough to use the boat that passes the river from life to death end to end and avoid the harshness the common souls face, except for some.

Ichigo stops walking, the currents around him intensify as he scans for any demon near.

Hell is never a place for security, more so, Hell in uproar.

He stands at the edge of the river, on top of a construction of wooden platform and a similarly wooden shabby boat loosely tied to one of its post. Ahead is the river that connects both realms, unsullied and untainted by any numinous means; its appearance is identical to the other side.

Ichigo steps closer, one foot ahead of the other, anticipating her arrival.

There is sublime rhythm in the air that lets him understand it, see the underworld from every angle, hear the beings loudly, all these make his already heightened senses more efficient than any demon's.

It is minuscule, but each ripple in the water, each leaf that falls in it tells him her location. And by now, she has seen the candles.

His vision focuses on the water and riverbanks beyond, to a place unreachable by others' simpler, less gifted eyesight.

There, in his mind, through his eyes, he sees the violet eyes that haunt him, he sees her petite form clothed in brightest red. He feels the familiar wave, the pull of what they call kindred soul, or simply,  _mate_.

Ichigo draws his katana slowly.

He draws his katana slowly from its sheath, savoring it; he draws it with the intent to kill, and to kill fast.

 _To kill fast_. And efficiently. He does not hope to spare the woman the pain of ultimate death by killing her fast, he does hope for, however, her complete and quick disappearance the minute his blade cuts her flesh. To shatter her complete being, split every particle that makes her soul and vaporize it. In his hands, there will be no rebirth, no cycle for her to re-enter. He'll damn her soul along with his. No rebirth for the both of them. He prefers it this way, over the plague she'll bring him with her existence.

"You await her,"

He pauses mid-breath, he hears a voice, old, raspy, a forced gurgle, "No need for your blade; it won't cut her."

Ichigo's grasp around the hilt tightens. He glances sideways and sees the seer-corpse smiling toothily at him from her position, sitting under the shades of a red-tinge sakura tree in full bloom.

He forces himself to acknowledge her. " _Ba_."

"You plan to strike her fast, as swift as a hurling wind, as quick as a viper's bite,"

He glares at her, hateful. The seer-corpse knows everything.

"I tell you, young warlord, it won't happen. Your hostility won't work."

The seer-corpse is a spirit, shifting in between realms, enjoying itself by watching all kinds of beings struggle and occasionally interfering -like now. It takes the most grotesque form it could conjure. Now,  _it_  turns to a  _she_ , or at least, taking the form of a barely-clothed female, old Oni corpse; rib cage showing, emaciated with red skin and brittle gold hair –much like Datsue-ba's form, except that the old skin-flayer Oni's form is legitimate, and this one, the seer-corpse, just likes to play horrific visuals.

"I have reasons to doubt your motivations, young warlord." She begins. The legs of her rotten Oni form is severed, the bones hanging by thin threads of tendons and rotten muscle, making her stationary in her position under the tree a few meters away from where he stands, yet her voice echoes like she's beside him, her tone audible.

"Say what you will." He turns away. He hates its wisdom and eyes -even the voices it uses right now.

"I watched you kill the rogue Oni by the river." She says wryly.

Ichigo briefly glances back at her, as if the matter is of no importance.

The Oni in the river that flows from the Meido to the little human village that runs parallel with its waters, the one who asks for female sacrifice, is dead.

The Oni in the river isn't a real one, but a malicious, rogue one who pretends to be a superior demon who anathematized the entire village and uses it to demand human sacrifices in exchange of forgiveness and lifeline for over centuries. And the humans, its current generation is scared, single-minded and easy to sway, believed the Oni and sent offerings for centuries, not believing the warnings of their forefathers. And the lowly Oni raped then feasted on the human female offerings.

He killed the waiting Oni and took his place just recently, but not for the same lewd reason.

"I did." He whispers quietly, turning his darken glare towards the seer-corpse.

There is Ichigo, the demon warlord from the deepest hell, relatively human in appearance. He who stands tall, carrying a black katana, clothed in black clothes; black hakama and gi, its right sleeve always down, revealing black bandages tightly wrapped around his upper torso up to his chest, shoulders, down to his whole right arm. His hair, the shade of the sun, reaches past his amber eyes and stops an inch beneath his shoulders.

Ichigo is The Riser from the mugen-jigoku the deepest hell -the only who ever did. His fall took two thousand years, his climb took one thousand years. The kings who passed him judgment let him regain his status. It required souls for his complete restoration, but he never completed it.

" _You're dying."_

_Never wrong and never opposed, the seer said he has one weakness._

_"She's a-" The seer turns to him._

_"-human girl." Ichigo supplies the words._

The seer-corpse says again, "I doubt you and your motivations."

"Don't doubt it." He says dismissively.

He looks back at the water, he sees her seeing the riverbanks where different kinds of Oni stand, watching her. Oddly, he finds no trace of fear on her face.

The seer-corpse says, "You made a deal with Orochi's offspring, keeping the usually chaotic river undisturbed while she pass, for her to see none of the giant serpents lurking beneath her boat, the poor souls that were crossing the river were all unable to swim, chained at the bottom, twisted and mangled by the violent serpents underwater, helpless while waiting for her to pass."

"They asked for the massacre of those left in her village in exchange, you agreed despite knowing its ramifications."

A brief silence ensues, broken by the seer-corpse.

"Yes, I doubt your motivation."

The seer-corpse seems very confident in her assumption, but Ichigo flinches  _not_.

"Aren't you worried about the ritual?" he asks her, hoping to sway her attention for a moment.

The  _real_  ritual happens every one thousand year.

"I do not." The seer-corpse smiles, her rotten fleshy lips pulled up to reveal blackened teeth. "I never worry. I see everything."

"If you see everything, then why are you here convincing me?"

"Because I saw myself persuading you," her horrendous smile grows wider, "And I saw myself succeeding."

"No, you're only delaying me a few minutes. This is useless-"

However, she continues, interrupting him. "You initially thought of hiding her in one of the sixteen hells-"

"Lies." Ichigo fully turns away from her and steps into the shallow water -the river that denies his presence strongly, but he succeeds in hiding whatever painful effect it has on him.

"You cannot step into the Human Realm, but your enemies can."

At her words, his senses immediately flare, angrily searching for any spying ears or eyes, sparing only a second to glare at her. An ordeal that she laughs at, or whatever rough sound her rotten windpipe could produce. What she said is true and that it is one of his limitations. Limitations that none of his enemies know. Limitations that she would happily tell anyone who asks –regardless. Dealing with the seer-corpse is like dealing with a double-edge sword -with careful deliberation.

Steeling himself after finding no one in the vicinity, he chooses to avert the current subject before he leaves for the human soul.

A sardonic smirk.

"I conquered two divisions of Hell."

"You conquered  _only_  two divisions, two levels of Hell, my young warlord. Fourteen more are still after you." is the seer-corpse ready, equally sardonic reply.

Tilting her rotten head to the side, so that the fleshier part of her face where her red skin recedes from the muscle and visible cheekbone turns to him, "My dear, despite my appearance, I feel like you are trying to impress me." She jokes, under such horrible context.

" _I'll kill her_." He says firmly –no, reiterates firmly, ignoring her little comment.

"Your blade won't."

""I'll bring you her head."

"You cannot."

"I'll bring you her head," Ichigo stares at her bulging, rotten eyeballs, "Once you get a good look at it, I'll take yours." He says with finality, preparing to leave the seer-corpse.

"I am neither dead nor alive. I am neither of these states."

"Then I'll choose one for you."

He's gone. The last of his words meant as a threat remain an echo, yet the seer-corpse remains smiling toothily, its eyes bulging and rotating at his direction, towards the riverbanks.

* * *

When Rukia opens her eyes after being forcibly closed, she, again, sees the stars above her.

Rukia's arms move aloft and feels glacial currents move around her, all over her –she's underwater. Her hair and red clothes sprawled in every direction. She's laying inches beneath the water gazing out in the stars, the same stars she has seen but clearer and closer, their spiral branches more definite and move in faster pace, she stares, momentarily ensnared.

But she's no child -not anymore, and the fascination she held moments ago was gone.  _The demon_.

She tears her eyes from the stars, forces herself to move, and she tries to scream, no words come out. She finds herself floating; there is no palpable ground beneath her. Where she lies, there is nothing but bottomless water.

Then she notices him, standing beside her lying form, towering in his height, looking down at her. A poised black katana on his hand.

Rukia feels a terrible energy, his is the oppressing kind of darkness that she never felt before.

He angles his black katana. Her eyes widen in its familiarity, it is the same one that reappeared beside her for three nights.

He points it down at her, immersing it inches beneath the water until it reaches her neck, sliding the tip of the blade from her neck to her chin, creating minuscule ripples in the water, tracing her jaw line upwards slowly, it reaches her left eye, the tip hovering just above the pupil of her violet eye.

The woman looks at the tip of his black katana then her eyes slide up to him. She stares up at him dreadfully, locking gazes with his amber eyes.

His answer is only a cold stare of his down at her.

This is the violet that haunts his waking and dreaming hours. The brightest, clearest shade of violet –he never hated a shade of violet this much.

She is said to be his mate, a word that he has learned to hate because of its accompanying implication;

" _You're my defeat._ "

For a warlord, this is everything.


End file.
